


Nunc est Bibendum

by werepope (quiteparadise)



Series: 2014 Advent Calendar for a Filthy-Minded Athiest [4]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drinking, Drunkenness, M/M, Pub Crawl, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiteparadise/pseuds/werepope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Now is the time to drink, now the time to dance footloose upon the earth."</p><p> </p><p>Advent calendar challenge: Black ice</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nunc est Bibendum

Louis and Zayn slip out of pub five to share a spliff.

Their pub crawl tradition started when Harry finally turned eighteen. They didn't know they were founding a tradition, of course. They were just celebrating that the lot of them could finally have a pint together. It didn't become a tradition until after they'd moved away.

Now they only see each other during the holidays and, if they didn't have the pub crawl, there's a chance they wouldn't see each other even then. Or maybe that's just the worry. It's Zayn's worry, anyway.

Louis shoves his fists into his pockets as he waits for Zayn to pass the joint back. Even in the alley, barely lit by a streetlight some yards away, his eyes are looking distinctly red. No way in hell Zayn looks any better.

He exhales through a grin.

"How's things?" he asks. He's probably asked already tonight. They did the obligatory catch-up stuff early on. But it's the first time he's had Louis all to himself. It feels like he should make an effort. Show he cares.

Louis keeps him waiting for a good, chest-aching ten seconds. The man is committed to his high. Then, finally: "Good. Things are good, mate. Teaching third year so I've got to do key stage two testing, but it's good. You?" He takes another hit.

Zayn's… not entirely sure what that means, actually. It's been a long time since third year. Been a long time since he cared about standardized testing at all. But he knows Louis is working at a primary school. He reads about it on Facebook.

"Turned in my studio project."

"Another painting of a naked lady?"

A grisaille of a biomorphic tree of life pattern based on a design from a ninth century pyxis, actually. That's just going to sound like pretentious artist mumbo-jumbo to Louis, though. Zayn shrugs. "Teletubby centipede. Brutalist nostalgia."

Louis gives him a thumbs up and inspects the roach for smokability. There's about ten percent of a hit left on it when he passes it back but Zayn takes whatever small puff he can get. He's still a poor student, damnit, and weed is not cheap.

The boys find them just as he's dropping the pinched up bit of paper to the ground. Louis takes his arm for the short walk to the pavement. He's nice that way. Dependable. Louis stays surprisingly steady no matter how trashed he gets. It's one of Zayn's very favorite things about him, after his puckishness and his carefully coifed hobo hair.

Louis disengages to attach himself to Harry. Zayn doesn't mind. Harry is as graceful as a baby deer even at his most sober. He's at least five pints in now, and probably a couple shots as well, given his propensity for being given free drinks. He needs the help more than Zayn. And besides, Zayn's got Liam.

Liam who smiles at him in a sodden sort of way that Zayn is absolutely helpless against. He reaches up to touch Liam's cheeks, which fatten up under his fingers when Liam smiles. This is one of Zayn's very favorite things about Liam.

"Liam," he says. He means to follow this up with something meaningful, but he misses the mark by a bit. "Liam. Mate."

It's possible that the spliff was, in hindsight, unnecessary.

He missed all the lads that first year away at university. He still misses them. There's no way to replicate this kind of friendship in the adult world. They bonded in the crucible of secondary school. They're all of them melded together in bits and pieces. Not inseparable so much as contaminated. They're like paint that's been mixed. There's no undoing that.

If you laid them all out on a palette, though – if you could see where all their colors have blended into each other, Zayn thinks there'd be more Liam color in him than any of the others. He and Liam just got on from day one. Simpatico. Liam was his best mate.

He missed Liam like burning that first year away at university. Now it's a dull, baseline ache that only sharpens occasionally – when Liam texts him randomly after a few days of radio silence or tags him in a picture of cool graffiti on Facebook. Zayn doesn't feel like his chest is going to burst with want of him every day anymore, but that's a double-edged sword. He feels a lot more susceptible to it now that seeing Liam is a rare occasion. His immunity's been lowered.

It doesn't help that the sight of him is a jump-start these days. Liam was adorable at eighteen, all curly hair and earnestness. He was so sweet. At twenty-three he's gorgeous in a way that Zayn didn't see coming out of all that soft-eyed niceness. At twenty-three Liam is big and solid. He's got a job as a physical trainer at a gym near his campus and he takes advantage of the facilities to burn off all the stress of school. His biceps are practically as big around as Zayn's thighs. It'd be downright emasculating if it weren't such a turn-on.

Liam puts his arm around Zayn's waist, big sasquatch hand warm through his coat. Zayn puts his arm around Liam's shoulders, squeezing at him in what he hopes passes as friendly sort of way. Two pints ago he would have been able to tell. Next pint he won't give a shit.

"My Heart Will Go On" had been on the jukebox in the last pub and up ahead Harry starts singing it now, possibly just to get it out of his head. Niall doesn't know much of it but he vocalizes along with the first verse, strange-sounding with Harry's grit and none of the vibrato. Louis sings what he can recall of the all-important flute part, voice appropriately warbley.

No one can resist the chorus.

They belt it. Five drunk lads, more men than boys anymore, singing Celine Dion. Once they get going, it turns out they remember it damningly well. Zayn makes a passable go at the high notes.

"We should get something to eat," Liam says, once the laughing has mostly died down.

They'd meant to do that a couple stops ago but Niall got a few packs of pork scratchings and it had been enough to tide them over. Zayn had waved them off – there's haraam and then there's haraam.

Zayn's been listing slowly but surely into Liam for a while. He's lightheaded, either from the weed or the laughter. Too hard to tell. He makes an attempt to hold up more of his own weight. He doesn't want to be the drunkest person in any group, not even this one, but Liam presses his fingers into his side, keeps him in close.

"Chips," Niall crows, throwing his arms up. Harry follows suit. Louis holds onto the backs of both of their coats to prevent them falling over. Or darting into traffic, maybe. They do tend to wind each other up. And all of a sudden Zayn can see the primary school teacher in Louis, the gentle patience under his mischievousness.

He tightens his hold on Liam's shoulder, keeps him steady as he leans in to whisper. He still ends up banging his nose into Liam's ear but whatever. It's the thought that counts.

"Reckon we should get them leashes?"

Liam doesn't get it. From this close up he can actually watch Liam not get it. His brows furrow and he turns his head a little to get a look at Zayn, like he'll be able to read what he means in Zayn's face. It's alright, though. It wasn't very funny. He presses his knuckles into Liam's cheek.

"You should eat," Liam says.

Zayn likes him from this distance. He much prefers it over the miles and miles that are normally between them but he thinks that, even if they were only in the same city, if there were just a few dozen meters between them at any given time, that still wouldn't be close enough. Liam should never be more than an arm's length away. He should always be touchable.

Liam smiles and ducks his head.

Louis cranes backwards to "awww" obnoxiously at them.

Niall spots the neon sign of a chip shop and makes a break for it.

Harry stumbles into a lamp post.

Zayn… Zayn said some of that out loud, didn't he? About Liam and distance and touch. He'd be embarrassed if he weren't stepping onto a patch of ice and being pitched suddenly into a losing battle with gravity.

Liam tries to hold on.

Hitting the ground doesn't hurt nearly as much as Liam falling on him. Maybe there is something to be said for a little distance.

"Oh my god!" Liam scrambles off of Zayn and onto his knees. "Are you alright? Jesus fuck." He touches Zayn's chest and then his head.

He's too drunk to do a damage assessment. Any aches and pains from tonight won't set in until tomorrow. He'll probably have a hell of a bruise on his hip, on his arm. For now he's fine. For now he's got a bit of an adrenaline rush. Combined with the booze and the weed, he's feeling better than he has in quite a while, if a little shaky.

"I'm alright," he says, throwing an arm out for someone to help him up. He's not surprised that it's Liam who takes the offer, stumbling a bit to get back to his own feet but solid enough once he gets there to lend a hand. He keeps a hand on Zayn's elbow, once he's back up.

"Nothing broken? Fingers and toes? Ankles?"

Zayn laughs. "I'm fine, babe. You didn't break me."

Liam feels over the curve of his skull for bumps. He cups Zayn's cheeks and tips his head up, like he'd recognize pupil dilation even if he saw it. Zayn holds onto his wrists.

"Liam."

He smiles. "Sorry," he says. "You should have seen your face." He strokes his thumbs over Zayn's cheekbones.

Zayn kisses him. He's drunk and a bit high, and he's just taken a somewhat humiliating fall on a millimeter of ice. The timing could be better, so far as long overdue first kisses go, but he's not going to get a better excuse than this one, if Liam doesn't think kissing one of his mates is a good way to end a pub crawl.

Liam lets go of his face to grip the back of his neck and pull him in. Their feet slide dangerously on the sidewalk and they break away on instinct, gripping at each other and laughing nervously – half from fear of falling and half from fear of each other.

Further up the sidewalk, Harry hangs onto the light pole and sings: "Near, far, wherever you are–"


End file.
